


my yearnings ought to turn these things around

by brahe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Pining Crowley, References to Jane Austen, Weddings, background Anathema/Newton, it's Big Soft, it's just crowley being in love with aziraphale for 5k words what else do you want, some brief lowkey angst, there's some vague potentially blasphemous elements, they live together and have a cat but haven't confessed their love yet, though not as many as usual for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 09:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21336352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe
Summary: "Two nights," Crowley repeats, and he's mostly given up being put off by the whole ordeal. Pretending to be put off. Whatever."Tonight and tomorrow night," Aziraphale says. "The wedding's tomorrow, you remember?""I remember," Crowley says, though he didn’t."I figured it'd be nice to get in and have a day around," Aziraphale explains. "And perhaps a picnic for sunset."Aziraphale keeps talking, but Crowley's stuck on the picnic for sunset, about the soft, decades-worn quilt he keeps in the trunk laying between them and the grass, about the cheeses and wine Aziraphale no doubt packed away, about Aziraphale's eyes green and glittering and warm in the fading golden sunlight, and his insides do their best trapeze audition. He's not nearly equipped for such a thing.Or,Crowley's in love with Aziraphale, Anathema gets married, Aziraphale lovesThe Hobbit, and Tadfield is a good place for stargazing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 262





	my yearnings ought to turn these things around

**Author's Note:**

> this is mostly tv canon, as it's been like 5 years since i read the book and there's a lot i don't remember
> 
> i decided aziraphale was going to have green eyes because that's what i want. michael sheen's eyes are kind of hazel-y anyway
> 
> this went a lot of places i didn't expect it to go and didn't go a lot of places i wanted it to go, but i'm pretty happy with the turnout 
> 
> title adapted from under the same sun by ben howard
> 
> enjoy !

The invitation comes in the mail the same day it was sent out, white cardstock with golden ink and smelling faintly of jasmine and witch. It slides itself under the bookshop's door, floating through the front room, between the shelves, and up the stairs in the back leading to the second-floor flat to nestle itself in between two of the upcoming pages in the book Aziraphale's currently reading at the breakfast table. 

It's a slow morning, today – the sun rose slowly, and the birds woke slowly, and both Crowley and Aziraphale have moved slowly. Crowley has made it from his bed to the sitting room sofa, where he's sprawled out with his cat softly rumbling away on his chest. 

(Here's the thing about his cat ( _ their  _ cat, really, but that's too much for Crowley to unpack without at least a bottle of wine) – Aziraphale hadn't wanted any sort of animal at all anywhere near the bookstore, until Crowley pulled out a tiny white thing from his jacket that Aziraphale thought was a rather large cotton ball about the size of Crowley's hand until it made a soft, high  _ mew!  _ sound at him and blinked open big yellow eyes – just like  _ Crowley's  _ eyes – and the argument moved to her name. 

They eventually decided on Delilah.) 

Aziraphale made tea and warmed some scones some time ago, Crowley can't remember, coming over to the couch to deliver a small tray of breakfast and a few scratches to the backs of Delilah's ears before settling in at the table, in his usual seat that gets the best morning to early afternoon sun, book spread out before him. Crowley's nibbled away at the scone, but hasn't wanted to sit up enough to drink the tea, and he's certain it's gone cold by now. 

It's the kind of morning they never would've had before Armageddidn't, not just because of their (admittedly little –  _ Crowley's _ admittedly little) concern for head offices, but also because Crowley had never really let himself slow down like this, had never  _ truly _ relaxed in the last six millennia at the very least. 

But here, in Aziraphale's flat (he's still too afraid to call it  _ theirs _ , for a wide variety of reasons, not in the least because of the fear he won't admit he can't shake that this'll all crumble away as a dream) above Aziraphale's bookstore that never sells any books, Crowley finally understands what safety feels like, among some other things. 

_ Other things, indeed,  _ he thinks, lifting his head just slightly to peer at the tops of Aziraphale's white curls over the cushions. He briefly wonders (not for the first time) what it feels like to be under the same scrutiny Aziraphale devotes to his books, and tamps down at the shiver that wants to shake his spine. He then wonders what it feels like to rest his head on Aziraphale's thigh, to hide his face away in the soft skin of the angel's stomach, before he shakes his head and wonders instead why he has such horrible control on such thoughts. (It's been some several thousand years – he expects a little more from himself.) 

(To be entirely nice to Crowley, he had been doing a marvelous job keeping such wonderings tucked far away from the light, right up until the Almost End of the World a little over a year ago.) 

And so Crowley dozes and Aziraphale reads and Delilah purrs, and it's all frightfully domestic, and if Crowley wishes Aziraphale would come read on the sofa so they could have a bit of a cuddle, then that's his business. 

"Ah!" Aziraphale crows, some unknown length of time later, gentle excitement coloring his tone and waking Crowley from his light nap. He pops his head up off the sofa across the room to see Aziraphale's eyebrows over the back of it. "Dearest, look what's come in the mail!" 

Crowley props himself up on an elbow, eyebrow raised.

"Ms. Device is getting married to that wonderful Pulsifer boy," Aziraphale tells him. Crowley makes a humming sound and lets his head drop back onto the couch. The news doesn't surprise him – he'd been expecting it sometime soon, if Anathema and Aziraphale's biweekly video chats are anything to go by. 

"We'll have to find a room," Aziraphale is saying, "I wouldn't want to put the poor dear out with everything else going on."

Crowley realizes he's missed something important. He sits further up on the couch this time, far enough to throw an arm over the back and look at Aziraphale. 

"Angel," he calls, getting Aziraphale's attention and quieting his ramblings. "We're not going," Crowley says, and when Aziraphale just blinks at him, Crowley furrows his brows. "Are we?" 

"Of course we are, my dear!" Aziraphale says. "We've been _cordially invited_," he adds, waving the white card in Crowley's direction. It's Crowley's turn to simply blink, and he watches Aziraphale stand from the table, walk to the calendar tacked on the wall and scribble in the wedding date. Crowley doesn't miss the way he doesn't change the month. He drops his head onto his arm on the back of the sofa.

"I'll look into some reservations," Aziraphale tells him, coming over stand beside Crowley's elbow and bent head. He runs his fingertips through Crowley's hair. "Would you like a full cottage or just a bedroom?" 

Crowley makes a sound that's definitely not a contented hum, then squints as he considers the question. 

"I doubt you'll be able to find a whole cottage to rent in Tadfield for just a night," Crowley says, "so just a bedroom, I suppose."

"Certainly, darling," Aziraphale agrees, and Crowley tells himself it's impossible for his hair to feel cold without the angel's touch. 

\---

Three weeks later finds the Bentley speeding towards Tadfield, making the trip in half the usual time. Aziraphale's kept a white-knuckle grip on the handle the entire ride, but he's managed to keep conversation the entire ride, too, so Crowley considers that as growth. 

"I've book us for two nights with a Mrs. Braeburn," Aziraphale tells him. "Her boys are gone off to university, and her husband's on a business trip," he continues. "She's delighted for the company, though I made sure to tell her we wouldn't be there much, with the wedding and all."

"Two nights," Crowley repeats, and he's mostly given up being put off by the whole ordeal. Pretending to be put off. Whatever. 

"Tonight and tomorrow night," Aziraphale says. "The wedding's tomorrow, you remember?" 

"I remember," Crowley says, though he didn’t. 

"I figured it'd be nice to get in and have a day around," Aziraphale explains. "And perhaps a picnic for sunset."

Aziraphale keeps talking, but Crowley's stuck on the picnic for sunset, about the soft, decades-worn quilt he keeps in the trunk laying between them and the grass, about the cheeses and wine Aziraphale no doubt packed away, about Aziraphale's eyes green and glittering and warm in the fading golden sunlight, and his insides do their best trapeze audition. He's not nearly equipped for such a thing. 

They arrive in Tadfield without anymore surprise circus tryouts from Crowley's insides, and Aziraphale guides them to the cottage. It's a quaint little thing, orange and white and purple and green, and the Bentley looks horribly out of place. Crowley looks horribly out of place. He watches Aziraphale walk up the path to the front door, watches him accept the gentle hug from Mrs. Braeburn, watches him glowing in his white shirt and jacket – a combination from the last year, on Crowley's suggestion, during Aziraphale's slight post-Armageddoff crisis, a much needed update on his old wardrobe in the form of a soft button-down and smartly cut blazer (not that that ancient cream number has gone anywhere; it's been pressed and it's hanging in the back of the car, ready for tomorrow's ceremony) – and with his smile, big and genuine, crinkling his face, and Crowley sighs. 

"This is gonna be a long two days," he tells the Bentley, and starts collecting their few bags. 

Mrs. Braeburn is a nice, homely sort of woman, warm grey hair neatly wrapped on her head, eyes crinkled and dark. The interior of the house is similar, well-worn furniture and a vague smell of something home-cooked. She leads them through the living room and into the back of the house.

"Just let me know if you need anything at all, dears," she says. "There's towels in the bedroom, and the toilet's just down the hall on the right. Extra blankets in the closet. I've got some banana bread coming out of the oven in a bit if you'd like some. I'll just be in the kitchen."

Crowley watches her disappear around the corner, and he's confronted with an entirely new situation he's completely unprepared for. 

Two situations, to be precise. 

The first is that the bed is hardly a queen, and there's just  _ the  _ bed, just the one, a bit bulky in the center of the room, slightly this side of too big. He'd not considered the likelihood of sharing a bed – which, he thinks,  _ foolish.  _ And it's not as if they've never done it before, because they have, plenty enough, but those were all  _ before  _ Crowley came to the unfortunate realization that he's in love with the (for lack of a better word) damned angel. This whole ordeal's just ended up twice more of a… _ ordeal _ . 

The second is that Aziraphale has shrugged out of his blazer, sorting through his luggage with the button-down's sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and if Crowley hadn't considered the likelihood of the one bed, then he _certainly _hadn't considered the likelihood Aziraphale would ever wear a button-down with rolled-up sleeves, even when he'd convinced Aziraphale to wear the thing in the first place. Again, he thinks, _foolish. _He stands in the doorway, caught by the simple ethereality Aziraphale exudes here in his rolled-up sleeves and the mid-morning sun, and realizes he's in much, _much_ deeper than he thought.

(And he'd figured he was already pretty far in it.)

"Darling, could you hang my suit up in the closet, please?" Aziraphale asks, turning from the suitcase open on the bed to Crowley, who's still holding the rest of their things just inside the doorway and looking far too starstruck for what's happening. Aziraphale frowns.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and he steps away from the bed and to Crowley, reaching out and taking his elbow into his hand, leading him further into the room. 

"Fine," Crowley says, jolting out of his staring. "I'm fine," he repeats, assuring, too quickly and too vehemently. He steps away from Aziraphale, lest he figure anything out, and hangs the suit bag up in the closet. He deposits his own duffle onto the floor by the dresser, and spends too long crouched on the floor pretending to go through it.

"We have a good bit of the afternoon for some sightseeing," Aziraphale tells him. Crowley looks at him over his shoulder, eyebrow arched.

"In Tadfield?" 

"There's always something interesting to see no matter where you go," Aziraphale says, sounding almost offended. Crowley keeps looking at him.

"In Tadfield."

"Well," Aziraphale starts with a huff. "If you don't want to come with me –" 

Crowley stands up so fast his head spins. He didn't even know his body was capable of that.

"Now, I didn't say that," Crowley says, and the smile Aziraphale gives him is sunlight (and maybe a little smug, but Crowley can't tell for sure).

"There's a lovely park down the street, but I figure we'll save that for sunset. Anathema's told me there's a few little shops and things on the central street in town, and there's supposed to be a wonderful little bookshop."

"Lead the way, then, angel," Crowley says, and follows Aziraphale out of the house. Crowley finds himself looking forward to the bookshop – even he can feel the Aziraphale's love and joy for old books, and anything that puts such a wonderful smile on Aziraphale's face is time well spent in Crowley's opinion.

Tadfield really is quite small – there's five little stores downtown besides the grocer's and the bookstore, and it takes them around an hour to see all of them; the bookstore, of course, saved for last.

There's a little bell on the door that jingles when they walk in, and a elderly woman behind the counter looks up at them with a smile.

"Anything I can do for ya?" she asks, and Aziraphale gives her a warm smile, shaking his head.

"Just looking around," he tells her, and she returns her attention to the binder in front of her while Crowley follows Aziraphale through the shelves.

"I love little shops like this," Aziraphale says, when they've stopped in the back corner with the biographies. There's a book open in Aziraphale's hands, but his eyes are closed. "There's so much love, from the owners and the visitors, and clinging to the pages of the books. They're just wonderful."

"I know," Crowley says, watching as Aziraphale glows just a tad, a little bright star Crowley gets to keep for himself.

When Aziraphale opens his eyes, they're molten gold, shimmering with his power, with love, and Crowley decides right then and there that this is the weekend he's going to tell Aziraphale. The words almost tumble out here and now, but he swallows them down, not yet ready. No – he needs a plan. A plan to tell Aziraphale he's in love with him.

Aziraphale's eyes fade back to normal and the glow dies down before they leave, but not without three new books in tow. 

"Do you really need  _ another  _ copy of  _ The Hobbit _ ?" Crowley asks, taking the bag from Aziraphale. Aziraphale scoffs.

"I only have four!" he says. "It's a masterpiece, it's classic! Plus, every one I have is a different edition. I have one signed by Mr. Tolkien himself, you know."

Crowley sighs, but it's a fond sound. "Yes, I know, angel," he laughs. "And now you have one with a black cover."

"Ah, yes, I've been wanting this one for a while. It's just a clean design, don't you think? I'll have to find the rest of the series, now."

"Since when you do care about clean design?" Crowley asks, genuinely surprised. Aziraphale shrugs.

"I try my best to keep up," he says. "Particularly in the book arts."

"I see," Crowley nods, and it makes sense – Aziraphale cares about books more than almost anything else – but Crowley's still having a hard time wrapping his head around Aziraphale I-still-wear-19th-Century-outfits noting  _ clean design _ .

Aziraphale gives him a side eye. "I can tell you don't believe me," he says, at once sulky and hauty, and Crowley's quick to shake his head. 

"No, no, 'course not, angel," he says, "I'm just surprised, is all." He looks to Aziraphale, wonderful, unexpected Aziraphale. "I'm impressed," he adds, a little quieter for the truth of it, and Aziraphale's nearly glowing again.

"I'd like to drop the books off at the cottage before our picnic, if that's alright," he tells Crowley. "And we've got to get the basket. I brought a new wine to try – I think you'll quite like it."

\---

The sunset picnic is everything Crowley hoped and feared it would be. The new wine is spectacular, Aziraphale's food selection impeccable is always, the evening is cool and clear, the sunset magnificently purple and pink and orange. Aziraphale nearly glows with it all, and he's always done that, Crowley knows, when they have little moments like this, only it hits different now that Crowley's decided to confess his millenia of love.

Aziraphale's eyes are brighter than the grass, glittering even more beautifully than Crowley had imagined, and when he laughs, the confession nearly tumbles out of Crowley's mouth. He considers, as Aziraphale refills their wine glasses, why he doesn't let them pour out – it's the perfect setting, really, the perfect evening and the perfect mood, so much so that he suspects it would feel almost  _ natural  _ to look over at Aziraphale, backlight in the golden hour sunshine, and say,  _ by the way, angel, I've been meaning to tell you that I'm in love with you.  _ Aziraphale would look at him, and his eyes would crinkle in the corners, and he'd say,  _ I was wondering when you'd admit it,  _ and his lips would taste like the sweet red they've been drinking.

And – that’s another thing he's come to know, that the words have been sitting on the back of his tongue for weeks, months, years and years, and while he's only just become consciously aware of them, they've been so close to the surface for several thousand years at the least. He lets his mind drift to moments in their lives – the holy water, the church, the almost-apocalypse – and knows with an iron certainty that he's been waiting for the right moment to confess before he even realized it. 

But Crowley says nothing, and maybe it's because he's a coward, and maybe it's because he wants to hold onto what they have for just a little longer, and maybe it's because he can't bring himself to change the atmosphere that's settled around them tonight, doesn't want to see anything but the warm, gentle smile Aziraphale's been giving him all evening.

(It's really because he's afraid of what Aziraphale would say, afraid that it'd be one thing too much and drive him away for good this time, and Crowley would rather disincorporate for good than live a moment of another hundred millenia without Aziraphale within reach.) 

"You've been awful quiet this evening," Aziraphale says, leaning back on his elbows to watch as the last of the sun disappears. Crowley hums.

"Just thinking, I suppose," he says, and Aziraphale looks at him, eyes soft and crinkled.

"Well, don't hurt yourself," he says, sly smile forming on his lips. "We've got a long day tomorrow."

Crowley sighs and lays back against the picnic blanket with his hands behind his head, watching the stars slowly poke through the navy sky.

"Yes, angel, I suppose we do." 

Azirphale lays next to Crowley on the blanket when the sun has entire disappeared, the warmth of his body radiating along Crowley’s left side.

“This is your work, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks, gentle, phrased like he already knows the answer. He probably does, though they’ve never managed to talk much about Crowley’s early life.

Crowley’s gaze flickers around the stars. “Yeah,” he says, soft, and there’s an emotion that hits him so suddenly, so strongly, so fillingly that he feels like crying with it. It’s been several lifetimes since he held nebulae in his hands and stirred galaxies with his fingers, and he gets by, doesn’t really miss it too much, but – but it’s the thing he misses most about his time  _ before _ , and, for some reason, he misses it intensely enough tonight for it to feel like a phantom limb, a vital piece, gone.

“Yeah,” he says, again, clearing his throat. “They’re mine.”

He hears Aziraphale shift, sees his face out of the corner of his eye, looking at him now.

“I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean to make you upset,” Azirphale says, soft and genuine, and Crowley sighs.

“I know,” he says. “It’s not you. It’s –” he pauses, breathes, and his voice is rough when he speaks again. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? You can’t tell as well from down here, but – it’s truly magnificent.” He pauses again, remembering how it felt to build star patterns and to set planets spinning in their orbits. “I get why the humans have started to leave the surface,” he says. “There really is no better place to see it all than out there.”

Aziraphale reaches for him, then, resting his palm against Crowley’s heart, and Crowley turns to look at him, sure his eyes are shining and red-rimmed.

“I’ve never felt a love like this before,” Aziraphale tells him. “It’s different from the ones from the humans, and the other angels, and from your usual.” He furrows his brow. “It’s...old, and longing, and – and so  _ sad _ .” Aziraphale sits, looking down at Crowley with heavy concern. “Dearest, how do you…?”

He trails off as Crowley closes his eyes. He’s cried so much these last few years, Crowley’s beginning to wonder if there’s something wrong with his form.

(There’s not – it’s simply that Crowley, unlike other demons, has always been capable of immense love. A leftover from his angelic days, perhaps; or, more likely, an effect of spending so much time in love himself, and with a being of love at that. Such immense feeling is far too much for any being to contain, heavenly or otherwise.) 

“I manage,” Crowley tells him.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighs, and he wonders how he never noticed such a heavy weight sitting on Crowley’s heart.

When they leave the park, Aziraphale finds Crowley’s hand and holds it within his own.

\---

Crowley had managed to completely forget about the single bed situation, between the picnic conversation and the hand-holding Aziraphale initiated, and remembers only as his eyes land on said bed after opening their bedroom door. He stops in the doorway, and Aziraphale bumps into him.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley hums, shaking himself out.

“Just fine, angel,” he says, and drags himself into the room. He avoids Aziraphale as they change into sleep-clothes and all the way up until they slide under the covers.

Crowley lays on his side, facing the closet, and he suspects Aziraphale is on his back.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says, hardly more than a whisper, and Aziraphale hums.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” he says, and Crowley’s fairly certain he doesn’t imagine the faint touch at the top of his spine. 

(He wakes up once during the night to find his arm around Aziraphale’s waist. He debates moving, rolling back over, but Aziraphale sighs before he can decide, settling more deeply in the embrace, and so Crowley leaves his arm and drifts back to sleep, at once elated and terrified.)

\---

Morning comes and goes rather as usual – Aziraphale’s already out of bed by the time Crowley wakes, but the sheets under his hand are still warm – and before long it’s mid-morning and Crowley’s sitting on the bed, watching Aziraphale get ready. It's not quite so obvious – he's already dressed to leave, so he's lounging against the pillows, soaking in the sun, and his gaze just happens to track Aziraphale as he putters around the room.

The angel is wearing a slightly elevated version of his usual suit – his typical cream blazer with a grey button down and a cream paisley bowtie that matches his pocket square. It's a lot of white ("It's  _ off _ white, dear"), but Aziraphale had insisted that Anathema wouldn't be bothered.

"She's not wearing white, dear, so there's nothing to worry about," Aziraphale told him earlier, when Crowley aired his concerns once again. Crowley frowned, but Aziraphale had already moved on to tying his bowtie.

Crowley checks his watch for the fourth time, and when he looks back to Aziraphale, their gazes meet in the mirror. Aziraphale slides his hands down the front of his suit.

"Well," he asks, "what do you think?" 

Aziraphale always looks nice in shades of white, and this is no different, although it cut a sharper figure than his usual suit – more like the button down he wore yesterday. Crowley let his eyes linger.

"Looks good, angel," he says, soft and honest, and Aziraphale's answering smile feels warmer than the sun spot Crowley's laying in.

"We'd better get going," Crowley tells him, shifting up off the mattress. "Ceremony starts in half an hour."

"Half an hour!" Aziraphale exclaims, and Crowley gets a bit of a laugh at the comical look of shock on his face.

"Oh, relax, angel, the venue is five minutes away. Grab your cufflinks and let's go."

Aziraphale huffs at him, but grabs the cufflinks and fiddles with them on the way out to the car. 

\---

The ceremony is short and simple. Aziraphale and Crowley sit on Anathema's side near the back; it's a relatively small group of people, especially on Pulsifer's side.

Anathema comes down the aisle in an close-fitting burgundy gown, long train flowing behind her and an overflowing bouquet of king's crown, nightshade, and daisies in her hands. She looks beautiful, witchy, and Aziraphale mutters softly about how perfect it looks.

Their vows are ones Crowley has never heard before, but he's also not paying entirely enough attention to tell for sure. He's, as usual, distracted by Aziraphale, who's glowing again like in the bookstore the day before, only gentler this time, a faint golden probably undetectable by the humans around them. He's radiating a warmth that seeps into Crowley's bones, one that would've made him vaguely uncomfortable two years ago, but now only leaves him biting back his confession once again. 

Aziraphale's glow only grows as the ceremony turns into the reception. Even Crowley can feel how strong the love is in the air around them, flowing from the newlyweds and their small gathering. It's almost nauseating, but Crowley has it under control. Probably.

Or, he mostly did, until Anathema sits herself down at their table, where they're the only two sitting.

"How's it going back here?" she asks, and Aziraphale gives her a smile.

"Wonderfully, my dear. You're simply radiant, and this party is delightful."

Anathema laughs. "From anyone else, that'd sound like sarcasm. I'm glad you both could come." She stands again, but tilts her head at Aziraphale before moving on. "You're pretty radiant yourself, Mr. Fell," she says, and leaves with a bright laugh at Aziraphale's blush.

"Is it really that noticeable?" Aziraphale asks Crowley, who shakes his head.

"She's a witch, angel, I'm sure it's fine," he says, and it's a little more offhand that he intended, but the nauseous feeling from before is building and building, and he's focusing on keeping the noise and  _ love  _ from the party out of his head.

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale asks, brow furrowed, entire attention now on Crowley.

"Fine," he says, teeth grit just a little.

Aziraphale reaches a hand over and rests it against Crowley's arm. "Are you sure?" he asks again, and it's finally too much. Crowley stands fast, shaking the glasses on the table and dislodging Aziraphale's hand.

"I'm – fine," he says, sharp, and turns to walk away. 

\---

Crowley ends up in the small gravel parking lot just outside the venue, and he can still hear the music and the din of talking and laughter, but it's at least a bit removed, outside of the swells of it all.

He runs a hand over his face, through his hair, and over his face again. He feels like it's been a lifetime since the bookstore yesterday, for all he can think about his feelings. The  _ love  _ pouring out of the reception is so strong even he can feel it out here, and it makes him want to do something rash, makes him want to yell so loud he drowns out the feeling.

He paces across the gravel where his thoughts are quieter, hands in his hair, wondering what to do. Six millennia on this planet and he's never learned confession – it’s such a human notion, talking to a distant, confusing God, and yet Crowley wishes now he at least learned how to shout his secrets into the dark. 

He's lost in his head until he walks into Aziraphale, who's come out to find him.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley asks, halfway accusatory, stepping away. Aziraphale furrows his brows.

"Looking for you," he says, like it's obvious, and maybe it is. Crowley's past the point of knowing. 

"I told you, I'm fine," Crowley says, snappish, and Aziraphale frowns.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, but you've been weird this whole weekend. Don't think I haven't noticed. Is it something I did? Was it the conversation last night? Is it the wedding? I don't –" 

"It's not you," Crowley interrupts, and Aziraphale's frown deepens.

"Well, if it's not me, what it is? You've been jumpy since yesterday morning and that makes me feel like it's my fault. I just…"

Crowley looks at Aziraphale across the lot, rambling on, backlit by the string lights behind him, face creased in his half-anger, half-confusion, and Crowley finally tumbles over the edge of it, half-laid plans thrown out the window much faster than they were made. 

"I've been trying to tell you that I'm in love with you!" Crowley shouts, silencing Aziraphale mid-word, and it's loud, rushing in his ears, leaving his hands shaking. Aziraphale blinks at him, and there's silence, just Crowley's own breathing and the far away din of the reception. 

“You…” Aziraphale starts, stopping before he really gets anywhere, and Crowley throws his hands in the air.

“Could you really not tell? We’ve spent six thousand years together, and you’re telling me you never noticed? I’ve been in love with you since Eden!” he says, and maybe he hadn’t meant to admit that much, but it’s out there now.

“ _ Eden _ ?” Aziraphale asks, almost incredulous, and Crowley sighs, the fire leaving him as fast as it came.

“I’ve only ever loved two things, in either of my lives,” Crowley tells him. “The stars, and you.”

The silence that stretches between them feels like a century, and Crowley’s near drowning in the fear that this is to be the rest of his miserable life. And then, Aziraphale laughs, a wet sound that sounds like a release of emotion than a noise of humor.

“What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” he says, and it breaks in the middle, and Crowley’s fear turns to panic, because he’s pretty sure there’s not supposed to be crying in a love confession.

(For all Crowley knows about love, he still has so much to learn.)

“I don’t know,” Crowley says, “maybe that you feel the same way?” The hope in his voice is just about a tangible thing, and he hates how vulnerable it makes him sound.

Aziraphale makes the same not-laugh sound, and looks at Crowley with an expression Crowley recognizes as the one he saves for his most cherished books.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. “Of course I love you. I’ve known since the church, although I suspect it’s been much longer than that.”

Relief is sudden and swift in its course through Crowley’s veins. “I…” he starts, and laughs, a nervous, relieved sound. “That’s good,” he says. “That’s – really good.”

“Good?” Aziraphale repeats, and there’s a laugh in his tone, too. “Just good?”

Crowley shrugs. “You’re supposed to be the romantic one,” Crowley tells him, and it makes Aziraphale laugh, a full, real one that leaves Crowley a little breathless.

Aziraphale steps towards him. “Would it be better if I quoted something? Austen, perhaps –” he says, and he’s in Crowley’s space, now, looking up at him. “‘I cannot fix upon the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words,’” he quotes, then grins. “Except, it was the church in 1941, after you saved both me and my books, and you called yourself Anthony for the first time, and I stood in the rubble and wanted no one but you beside me for the rest of time.”

Crowley holds the sides of Aziraphale’s face as he kisses the rest of the words out of his mouth, wrapping his arms loosely around Aziraphale. 

“‘I have loved none but you,’” Crowley quotes, after, and it’s worth it to watch Aziraphale’s dazed expression turn into one of joy and – love, deep and true.

“I thought I was the romantic one,” Aziraphale says, wrapping his hands around Crowley’s arms. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Where do you think Jane found the inspiration for  _ Persuasion _ ?” Crowley says.

“No!” Aziraphale laughs. “You? You’re Wentworth?”

Crowley inclines his head. “Not directly. I simply...inspired some parts of his character.”

Aziraphale laughs and pulls Crowley down to kiss him again, full of feelings like  _ happiness  _ and  _ forever _ .


End file.
